Did you ever have those hyper-realistic bed-wetting dreams as a kid? The ones where you wake up convinced you’ve peed yourself and start feeling around the sheets only to find it was a dream. Like that isn’t the worst idea ever. Yes, of course, I want my hands to be covered covered in pee. That’s exactly how I want this story to end. But then again, I suppose if you’ve peed the bed, you’d know instantly because you’d be in a puddle of your own making. And the very next thing you’d do would be to call out “Muuuuumm!” Ahh childhood, isn’t it grand? I suppose it’s even “better” if you’re the parent that has to clean all that mess up (not that I’d know, being quite happily child free for nigh on 34 years now ;)).

Anyway, as usual, I’ve gone off topic. I had a point and it was that I still get those dreams as an adult every now and again. I never actually wake up to find I’ve peed the bed (thank god) although I have very slightly poo-ed the bed once when I was very sick and I have to say there was no fucking warning dream for that! Sorry, too much information, I know, I’ll carry on with my bed-wetting dream story (cos that’s sooooo much better). But yes, the body seems quite good and interrupting the usual programming to tell you you need to get the fuck out of bed to relieve your bladder. It’s right too. Every time I wake up in a panic thinking I’m going to have some ‘splaining to do, I never actually do but I definitely need to go pee. It’s a handy little alarm system really.

I think I have a bit of a weird relationship with my bed and sleeping in general. I always, always, always have to sleep with a doona/blanket/duvet/whatever you call it in your country of origin/residence. This is regardless of how hot it might be. In Sydney, we’re currently experiencing one of our hottest summers on record (in over a century, I believe). Yesterday was the hottest day in I don’t know how long. Yesterday and today were both 36 degrees (you Americans can figure that shit out yourselves as punishment for Trump). It’s fucking HOT AS BALLS (a ridiculous phrase seeing as balls are biologically designed to keep cool) down here and yet I had to sleep with at least a piece of myself under the doona. Hell, I started off with the whole of myself under there because that’s the only way I can fall asleep. I weirdly don’t feel safe otherwise.

My child mind is convinced that whatever grim creatures slither out into the darkness when the lights go off will only be able to grab me if I’m not under the doona. Cos that’s how night time works. Blankets are your protection, your talisman against unwanted advances from the Boogie Man. And, fucking idiot that I am, I listen to my child mind and say, ‘Yes, that makes total sense. Let’s sleep under this fucking doona in close to 40 degree heat (we have no aircon, just a stupid fan that circulates the hot air and fucks with my sinuses) because monsters will get us otherwise and – fuck it – I grew up in Jamaica, what’s a bit of night time roasting if it means you don’t get snatched by the demon from Paranormal Activity?’